


now speak of ruin

by savetheclaypots



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Coda, Episode Tag, Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Episode: s15e04 Atomic Monsters, Episode: s15e05 Proverbs 17:3, Episode: s15e06 Golden Time, Episode: s15e07 Last Call, Episode: s15e08 Our Father Who Aren't In Heaven, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22208068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savetheclaypots/pseuds/savetheclaypots
Summary: A story about what happens when you don't feel better in the morning.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	now speak of ruin

**Author's Note:**

> Since much of the divorce mini-plot was left deliciously understated, I decided to go ahead and have some fun with the narrative negative-space. Section I was originally posted as two ficlets, which you can find [over here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534001). This fic is also available on [tumblr.](https://curioussubjects.tumblr.com/post/190242861726/now-speak-of-ruin)
> 
> Title and outro respectively from "Directions from Here" and "Detachment;" both by Carl Phillips.

**I.**

The sound of the bunker's front door closing hits Castiel like a death knell. He sighs at the thought; such dramatics are entirely too human. Some 10 years ago, barely a blink in time, the thought would have been, well, unthinkable. It's a messy thing to walk away. To know that there is no such thing as closure.

Humans heal with time, Castiel knows this. But angels are creatures of permanence. Eternal. They were not made for changing. He has been angel and human alike; thinks he has landed somewhere in between. What is healing then, for a creature like Castiel? When will Jack's loss be less like a hemorrhaging? When will it feel like an ache, persistent and manageable? There are books for this, but Castiel isn't sure they are meant for him.

There are books about heartbreak, too. Books, and movies, and music, so much music. Castiel knows them. Minutely. He knows the stories humans have told about love and lust. Love and redemption. Forgiveness. Love at the right time. Love at the wrong time. Metatron made sure he knew all of it. Minutely. But Castiel doesn't know if there are lessons for him there. Much less companionship. He knows there's a space in his heart Dean lives in. Has always already lived in. It's a messy thing to walk away. Untidy. There's no such thing as closure.

These things were not made for him, but they are his nonetheless. Castiel feels immensely, minutely, human.

Castiel walks to his car, and his his footsteps are heavy, sorrowful. His muscles are tight, his grace contained, yet he feels he is falling apart. Very human, that. Feeling had become second nature. Effortless and inescapable. Leaving the bunker, leaving Sam, leaving _Dean_ had not. Inevitable, maybe, though to think it causes a cold panic to wash over him.

And it's fascinating how human emotion comes in contradictions: hot tears and cold dread. All things Castiel thought were not made for him. How monumental that he's here now sitting frozen in his car with his thoughts racing. To think he didn't know how, before. Before Dean. _Before_.

But maybe Castiel has finally learned a lesson, if only just the one: to know when, if not how, to leave. Another change, then, the after. Whatever that is. Whatever that feels like.

~*~

The sound of the bunker's door closing hits Dean like a death knell. And then silence.

The door closes with a heavy thud, and for a second, two, a heartbeat, everything quiets. The hush feels like cotton in his ears. Or water, maybe. Thick until it pops. Rings. But until then there's silence. Time ticks a little slower, imperceptibly so-- or just enough to be unsettling.

The door closes with a heavy thud that drowns everything else, until Dean hears the bunker come alive around him. Quietly, at first, then insistent. The refrigerator hums, and the bunker itself hums with old static. The pipes settle, and Sam's mattress creaks, his chair drags on the floor. Dean can hear the false starts of his breathing, the shallowness of it. The tight noise of his hands holding the table. The ringing in his ears, the echo of the door closing with a heavy thud and the quiet _the quiet-_

But the bunker is not quiet. Not ever, not even after the door closes with a heavy thud. The sounds of the bunker become jumbled and undifferentiated. They buzz and buzz until Dean can't tell each sound apart anymore: his breathing and his hands, Sam in his room, the door, the door, the do-

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It _doesn't._

It's the absence of sound. Of words Dean could ever only say to himself. Words Dean could barely say to himself. Words like: _Stay._ And: _I'm sorry,_ and _I think I hate you a little. But I don't I_ _ **don't**_ _you just scare me._ Or maybe: _You're wrong. You got it all miserably wrong_ and _**Stay**_. But Dean doesn't know how to be honest without spilling his guts on the floor. He never learned how to say these things without love turning into a length of rope. Love that doesn't hurt. Love that doesn't sound like light extinguishing and ashes on sand. Love that doesn't sound like a door closing.

So silence. So the door closes with a heavy thud.

**II.**

When Sam asks after Cas, Dean doesn’t say much of anything. He shrugs, says he’s gone. He doesn’t know where. He lets Sam fill in the blanks. It’s Cas, after all. He’s left before; nothing unusual. Sam frowns, and Dean goes to his room. The silence follows.

Later, there’s a case, and it’s like old times. Sam is quiet, but it’s okay because Sam’s still shaken up about Rowena and God and Jack and Mom. It’s understandable. They’ll work the case; it’ll help. It has to. So they drive. Sam looks out the window, naps, and hums, distractedly, along to the radio. Dean pays close attention to the highway, to the feel of the steering wheel, the hum of the engine, and the music playing. He doesn’t glance at the backseat through the rear view mirror. He doesn’t. Not once.

There’s a case, and Dean is _fine_. They’re getting back in the game. Moving on.

They find the monster, a vampire –a kid. Dean does what needs to be done. It’s the job, and he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think about the kid kneeling down in front of him. Resigned. Doesn’t think about the blade in his hand, or the gun, or the cemetery. Another kid on their knees. Resigned.

On the drive back to the bunker, Sam isn’t quiet anymore. Dean tries to be reassuring. God is gone, they have their freedom. For everyone they lost, they _have_ to keep going. He talks more than he has in days. Sam’s weariness and grief is a palpable thing in the soft light of the road. The case was supposed to help. Dean’s words were supposed to help. Yet, Sam can only offer the possibility of a better tomorrow. It should be enough, Dean thinks, but there’s that hush that has been plaguing him for days and days. The echo of footsteps. The sound of silence a heavy thud.

_What if you don’t feel better in the morning?_

Sam doesn’t know. Dean drives.

**III.**

So God wasn’t gone, and it’s too much. Dean wonders over and over again about what in his life has ever been real. His body tenses, and Dean can feel anxiety flutter in his chest. It’s not restlessness, though. Dean exists in static, which is better than allowing his thoughts to take over. It’s tenuous, and won’t last. He’s too aware of the hints of _Has anything mattered? Was there a point to all the pain, the hurt...fuck, the_ _ **joy**_ _?_ floating around in his brain.

Dean has been staring at his bedroom wall for hours. The beer bottles pile up beyond his notice; the drinking mechanical and ineffective. It’s exhausting, this stillness. He’s just waiting for something to happen, for him to lose it. He finds himself, suddenly, thinking of last year when him and Sam accidentally summoned their father. The happiness that soon gave way to grim acceptance that John couldn’t stay. Dean had felt guilty that he desperately wanted things to go back to normal. And he felt proud that he built a life he could own. Could tell John he had a family. Had people to love. To care for. Dean had a _home_. Now, the memory is bitter. Neither life was more real than the other. It was a puppet show, all of it.

He wants to break something. To rage and yell. But he doesn’t; he stares at the wall. Drinks. He hasn’t been sleeping. Before Lilith, Dean dreamed of the vastness of the bunker’s rooms. All empty. Silent. Still. Sometimes, he woke up with a voice in the back of his head echoing in a relentless refrain: _We are. We are_. _We are_. The sound had been so comforting it had hurt more than it had helped, but it was better than the alternative: the empty spaces Cas left behind. It’s insane, but Dean misses dreaming of that kind of heartbreak. The naive ignorance of it. Ignorance of still being trapped in Chuck’s story. Dean had felt like hammered crap, but at least he had been free. Finally. Except. Except: _God wasn’t gone._ He and Sam hadn’t been free at all. There’s a secret and selfish part of him that wished he had never known about Chuck and his obsession with them. That he could keep the happiness he carved out of an astounding amount of suffering.

_We are. We are_ . _We are_.

**IV.**

Castiel had never remained human for long stretches of time, but he came to understand dreams. They were largely simulations, expressions of intense emotion, or an aspect of trauma. His time with the Winchesters could easily be comprised of all three. In all, Castiel would never call his time with Dean, Sam, Jack, and everyone else a nightmare. There had been nightmare enough in the past years, but knowing he wasn’t alone was a comfort. Castiel felt safe with the Winchesters, even if he often doubted his value as part of their family. In his car, watching the sun set in the horizon, Castiel misses them. But that’s done now. It was a good dream. Extraordinary. Yet, a dream, nonetheless. And if Castiel knows anything of dreams, is that no matter how much they linger, they eventually end and fade away.

The bunker is days behind him. Castiel had been driving with little purpose; his only interest outrunning everything he left behind. Driving really was distracting, he has come to understand. Soothing in its constancy. However, Castiel wasn’t built for idleness, he needs some kind of goal. He’s not too sure what people do when they get away from their lives. Where do they go to hide, but not lose themselves? Castiel has no desire to go to Vegas or sit around in a motel watching daytime television – not that he minds daytime television, of course. Castiel needs a bit of peace, and just like that he has something of an answer.

There was a dream once. Not his, obviously, as he was still fully an angel at the time. But in his memory, now, it feels like the dream was his, too. If only for a little while. Castiel thinks of a quiet pier on a lake. The air smells like early Fall – notes of Summer still lingering here and there. There was a breeze, he thinks. Just enough that the water wasn’t still and eerie. The lake had been beautiful even to his detached eyes. His purpose then was to deliver a warning to the dreamer. Castiel remembered looking at Dean while he fished, content in a way Castiel had never seen him be before. Despite the years since that dream, Castiel still knew very little about fishing, but he knows it must be remarkably peaceful.

With a decision made, Castiel takes the next exit and parks at a convenience store, so he can find the nearest lake. Maybe he could rent a cabin. He’s not very good at this, he realizes as he scrolls through his phone. The leaving things behind. The letting things go. Mostly, Castiel doesn’t want to be here in front of a Flying J looking for a cabin by a lake. He wants to be home. He wants his son to be alive. Castiel wants his family, to love and care for them and to be loved and cared by them in return. _But that_ _was_ _done now._ Faded like ripples in water and a dream almost forgotten.

~*~

When Dean hears Cas’s voice over the phone, the sudden jolt of irritation surprises him. It hadn’t occurred to him that Cas would keep hunting – though he knows it should have – and it certainly hadn’t occurred to him that Cas would use the FBI line. Not when he had been ignoring Sam’s texts and voice messages. Cas can be pissed at Dean all he wants, but Sam is still his best friend, and Sam worries. So, yeah, Dean is pretty damn irritated.

Cas’s clipped tone doesn’t help. Cas had been perfectly capable of contacting them, willing even. Just not enough to let them know he was fine. Fuck, that he was _alive._ That he hadn’t somehow been caught in Chuck’s crosshairs. That he had gotten their warning about Chuck still being around.

Well, Dean has Cas on the phone now, and clipped tone be damned he was going to say something. Tell him to stop ignoring his fucking phone. He does, and immediately hangs up. That’s that. Cas knows. Dean doesn’t feel much better, but he did his job.

And Sam can stop worrying.

**V.**

Swayze’s goes up in flames in the Impala’s rearview mirror. Dean grips the steering wheel and drives until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick. It takes a while, but he settles enough to see the tank is close to empty. Soon after, while Dean waits for the tank to fill, he checks his phone. He barely has time to register his heart skipping at seeing Cas’s name pop up several times in his notifications before he’s getting back into his car and driving home.

Much later, Dean drops heavily onto his bed sighing the sigh of the drained. It had been a long day. Hell, a long week. Month, even, probably more. Dean, not for the first time that day, thinks he should’ve stayed home. Shouldn’t have jumped at the first case that caught his eye and left Sam alone. Except...Sam hadn’t been alone. It’s why he wanted to find an excuse, any excuse, to get far away from the bunker. Not that Dean wasn’t happy for his brother, or happy that Eileen was back. He was pretty damn happy. Eileen’s return had been their first win in a long time. So, yeah, Dean was grateful that his brother had gained some of his cheer back. But Dean was having a hard time being around Sam and Eileen without wanting to crawl out of his skin. Every time they’d throw little smiles at each other or stare just a beat too long, it left Dean feeling raw and unsettled. He needed some air, some space from the thing between Sam and Eileen, and the empty chair next to his.

Seeing Lee again had been thrilling, a reminder of some of the few moments Dean had been truly carefree. He felt it again that night at Swayze’s, and the tension between him and Lee was easy. Fun. Dean hadn’t know how much he needed that. For the first time in weeks he let himself forget about Chuck and his games. About mom and Jack and Rowena getting caught in the crossfire. About Cas. Dean desperately wanted to forget about Cas, at least for a while because he couldn’t stop thinking that nothing they’d been through mattered, that what he and Cas were to each other was probably some B plot Chuck came up with for his own amusement. Either that or Chuck didn’t care about anything past rebooting his greatest hits through him and Sam...and if that was the case, then Dean had let one of the few real things he had slip through his fingers. It was overwhelming to think about. A weight he couldn’t shake off.

Lee’s easy smiles had been a welcome relief. Not that the night could’ve remained an uncomplicated and fun time with an old friend, a night reminiscing their dumbest and best decisions. Laughing about the time John had almost caught them in the middle of a drunken make-out. Or hunts that left them feeling on top of the world with purpose. No, it ended with Dean having to put down someone he cared for, someone he had been half in love with years ago. Yeah, part of Dean wished he hadn’t ended up at Swayze’s. He wished he had stayed home because Sam would need him. That he could’ve kept the rosy image of Lee intact in his mind. But another, larger, part of him knew that Lee needed to be stopped, and Dean needed to remember why he had to stop him. He had needed the harsh reminder that Chuck or no Chuck, he wouldn’t stop doing his job, and making sure the world was a little bit safer on the off-chance it was all part of a show. What he and Sam did had to matter because the people they saved mattered.

Dean had wanted to tell Cas all of this once he knew Sam was okay, but Cas had walked out before he had done more than take a steadying breath. Dean figured he’d deserved it; Cas had tried talking to him too, before. So the words rot and die in his throat before Dean even knew exactly how to put his thoughts into words. How to explain the anger and hurt than clung to him as well as the love and the fear. The fucking guilt and regret, too. But Cas didn’t want to hear it, and that was fair. And for all that Dean knew why Cas could barely stay in the same room as him, knew he owed Cas an apology, Dean was still so angry at him for leaving. Always leaving, and damn the consequences. Even if it got people killed (and his grief for Mary is still so fresh months later), even if it got _him_ killed. And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Cas walking into a lake, Cas’s wings burned to ash. And it’s Dean who has to deal with the aftermath. Dean is the one building funeral pyres, or carrying an old trench coat and waiting to be haunted, or drinking alone in his bedroom wondering what he’s supposed to do when morning comes and he still feels like he has a hole in his chest. He had also wanted to tell Cas that because maybe Cas would finally get it and just _stop._ And maybe he’d stay with them. With Dean.

Dean rubs his eyes, turns on his side to face his bedroom door. He can see the faint sliver of light coming from the library from under the door. Dean knows Cas is probably sitting in the library, reading in his chair. Or doing god knows what on his phone. Texting Claire, probably, regardless of the late hour. He should go to him. They should talk; they wouldn’t be interrupted with Sam and Eileen fast asleep. They could talk quietly in the night, they could listen to each other, if only Dean could figure out how to get up and do it. He can’t, but he stares at that sliver of light until he falls asleep.

~*~

Castiel feels at ease for the first time in weeks. It should be strange that he does, he has very little reason to, the only improvement since the last time he had been at the bunker being that _maybe_ they had a way to neutralize Chuck. Yet the bunker is familiar in a way no other place on Earth is to him, especially when it’s just him and everyone is asleep. The bunker was always his in the small hours of the night. It’s very human, he thinks, to be attached to a building. To the smell of old books and home-cooked meals he can’t even taste properly, to the sounds of familiar footsteps and the hum of the television. The clacking of keyboards. Castiel suspects he feels like this only partly because of his failing Grace. He knows he’s too sentimental for an angel, and has somewhat learned to embrace it. Humanity is burdensome and uncomfortable, but it has its advantages. So Castiel accepts the simple contentment of being home.

It’s all far from ideal, regardless. He hadn’t felt comforted while everyone was awake. Not since Dean had returned, anyway. Seeing Dean again had been...its own challenge. It shouldn’t have been surprising to him to be unnerved at Dean’s presence; talking to him on the phone had been difficult enough. Castiel could barely look at him much less stay in his presence, so he fled before Dean could say anything else. Or say nothing. Castiel isn’t sure which would’ve been worse. He tries not to dwell on things he can’t change – another lesson long overdue – but Dean is vexing in a way nothing else has ever been. And for all of Castiel’s sentimentality, he still can’t even think of Dean without hurt and anger rising in his throat desperate to get out.

Castiel wonders, in the silence of the library, if the strain will eventually lead him to leave the bunker behind again. After Chuck. If they make it. He feels a little guilty on behalf of Sam. Castiel had read the texts, and he’ll do better by him. Sam is a good friend, but Dean is something else entirely. They hurt each other more than they don’t, but when they don’t….Well. It’s everything. Castiel knows how easy things can be between him and Dean. Knows the simple joy of watching television together and laughing about things that hadn’t been particularly funny. They could sit quietly. They could create happiness out of nothing and have it feel effortless. If only they let themselves do it. If only.

If he were ever asked, Castiel would say that one of the cruelest lessons humanity has to teach is that, sometimes, love simply isn’t enough.

Sitting alone in the dim lights of the library, Castiel feels incredibly and terrifyingly human. He finds himself trying to parse out the significance of being back in the bunker after leaving for good. Castiel has left before many times without meaning or wanting to. The last time he meant it. Yet here he is. Castiel never quite manages to leave the Winchesters. He glances at the hallway, in the direction of the bedrooms, where he knows Dean isn’t actually asleep. It tugs at him, his awareness of Dean. Distracts him from his thoughts and leads them astray. In the end, it’s human foolishness that allows him to entertain the idea that maybe if Chuck can be defeated, there can be room for him here still.

Another human lesson, then: there’s nothing so miserable that hope can’t salvage.

**VI.**

The hush sound of voices drifts from the kitchen to greet Dean good morning. He stops before he reaches it, letting the sound of breakfast and conversation fill in some of the corners of the bunker. It’s good to have sound and people around, all things considered.

Dean lets it simmer, and closes his eyes. Just for a minute. Just enough to pretend it’s any other day, before Mom and Jack were gone, when Dean wasn’t so strung out: He’d walk into the kitchen and mumble good morning to his family. Sam and Cas would turn to him and smile; they’d carry on their conversation. Dean would fill his mug with coffee before joining them at the table. Despite still being far too sleepy to follow their discussion, Sam would try to include Dean just the same, with fondness in his eyes. Cas wouldn’t try, choosing instead to move closer to Dean until their shoulders and knees bumped. Dean would smile into his coffee, feeling warm inside and out.

When Dean opens his eyes, the daydream fades, and the bunker looks a little dimmer than it had before. There are still voices coming from the kitchen. There’s coffee and those he loves. Safe, for now. He’ll take what he can get.

It’s a chilly morning. Dean squares his shoulders, and walks in.

~*~

The irony of returning to purgatory isn’t lost on Castiel. He wants to laugh, absurdly, as he faces the rift. They have to prepare before entering, which causes the simmering hysteria in his stomach to morph into dread. Nothing good can come of this expedition. Dean knows it as well as he does, but here they are filling duffel bags with supplies.

The pull of purgatory feels inevitable, somehow. Not unlike a wound poorly healed. A jagged scar that is always more tender than the skin around it; a place you can’t help but worry repeatedly, or brush against without meaning to. Castiel remembers that about being human: the way fresh wounds would close and change his body irrevocably.

They don’t talk about purgatory, not since the first few days after Castiel came back. They still don’t talk about purgatory, even as they ready themselves to return to it. However, Castiel notices the distance between him and Dean diminish incrementally.

They don’t talk about purgatory, but they haven’t, by any means, forgotten it.

* * *

_"_ _it was lonely_

_though we did not say so”_


End file.
